


The Properties of Flame

by Voidfish



Series: Stanuary 2020 [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Burns, Stanuary 2020, pretentious use of fire metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22269742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidfish/pseuds/Voidfish
Summary: “My little firecracker,” Stanley’s mother cooes as she licks a finger and passes it through his wild curls. “My bright little boy.”------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------A character study of Stanley Pines and fire. For Stanuary Week 2020 Week 1: Burn
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Stanuary 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603003
Comments: 10
Kudos: 84
Collections: Stanuary





	The Properties of Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I finished my first Stanuary week one submission...15 days into Stanuary.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of homelessness and some blink and you'll miss it suicidal ideation. Gets a little angsty but like canon it has a happy ending :')

_ “There’s nothing interesting about science,” Stanley groans from the lower bunk, hands running through his slicked back hair. Stanford is in the bunk above him, pamphlet in hand as he chooses from a variety of courses to take for their senior year of high school. “I say we do something easy together, like art or woodshop.” _

_ “Science is fun,” Stanford argues. “And it will look good on a college resume, much better than woodshop.” _

_ Stanley ignores the pit in his stomach at the mention of college. “Oh, yeah? Name one thing about science that I’d find interesting.” _

_ Stanford frowns. “Well…” _

_ “See!” Stanley interjects. “You can’t. ‘Cause it’s lame.” _

_ “That’s not true. I was just thinking.” Stanford pouts, and for a moment Stanley considers just conceding defeat already and agreeing to fail whatever class Ford wants to take. “What about fire?” Ford says. _

_ “Huh?” _

_ “You like fire, right?” Ford continues. _

_ “Well, yeah,” Stanley admits. “What teenager doesn’t?” _

_ Stanley can hear the smile in Stanford’s voice as he speaks. “Well, fire is part of chemistry, which just so happens to fit into our schedule.” _

_ Stanley snorts. “Chemistry, huh? What’s that gotta do with it?” He makes himself more comfortable in his bed, grabbing for a magazine as softly as he can. He knows Ford and knows that the teenager will probably start rambling soon, lost in the concept he tries to explain. Even if Stanley can’t follow along with the words, he can still appreciate the joy in Ford’s voice, the light in his eyes as he gestures rapidly.  _

_ “Well, fire is really just a chemical reaction itself,” Stanford begins, “between the oxygen in the air and the fuel that is provided in a process known as combustion.” _

* * *

“My little firecracker,” Stanley’s mother cooes as she licks a finger and passes it through his wild curls. “My bright little boy.”

“Mom, I’m too old for this” the boy blushes, trying his hardest to hide his growing pleasure at the sign of affection. He’s twelve years old today, almost a man at this point, and he no longer has time to be coddled by his mother, even if he will miss these small moments where he can almost believe she is telling him the truth. Her dress is flashy, sparkling in the midday light and it is red, bright red.

“You’re too bright, baby,” she says to him instead of listening, hands cupping his cheek and rubbing circles with her thumbs. Her voice is soft and low, almost as if she’s sharing a secret. Her brown eyes lock onto his and he wonders for a moment if she really is a psychic, if there’s something else she knows that she refuses to tell. “You gotta be careful, hon, or you’ll burn out.”

* * *

_ “Fire is an exothermic, self-perpetuating reaction. When the fuel and the oxidation agent are combined and heated above a specific temperature, exothermic chemical reactions occur. These reactions are maintained, therefore, by the heat that they themselves are generating.” _

_ Stanley closes the magazine on his chest and shuts his eyes, letting the words wash over him. In his mind, he pictures a flame. _

_ “Without four key elements this process would not be possible. This is called the fire tetrahedron.” _

_ “Tetris-what-now?” Stan says. _

_ Ford snorts. Stan imagines that this noise makes the fire grow larger, crackling and releasing smaller sparks that dance before him. “Tetrahedron. It’s a polyhedron composed of four triangular faces, six straight edges, and four vertex corners.” _

_ Stan thinks about this. “So like a pyramid?” _

_ “Huh.” Ford says. “Now that I think about it, yes, that’s a much simpler way to describe it.” _

* * *

The lighter that Stan fishes out of his duffel bag is old. He’d gotten it at sixteen, seventeen maybe. At that age the urge to smoke had become a full fire and he had snuck to the corner store down the street where no one cared what was legal and had bought his first pack of smokes and this same dull red lighter. He had liked the sleek aesthetic of it and the cheap price, and had walked all the way to the edge of the boardwalk to break open his prize. By the time he got to the edge of the pier the sun had started setting and the creaky boards below him were cool beneath his feet. Ford was meeting him here at 6:00 when the robotics club let out and then the two would head back home for dinner together.

Reaching further into the bag, Stan found the abandoned box of cigarettes, too. He had thrown the box into this bag after returning home, disappointed when the smoke choked him, burning his lungs and causing his eyes to tear up. 

Stan takes the box out of the duffel bag reverently, two months from turning eighteen and twenty six minutes past being kicked out of his home, and pulls out a cigarette. He places his thumb against the lighter and gently flicks it on. At first the thing does nothing but sputter and die. Stan tries again, and again, and again until his thumb is feeling raw and a brilliant orange flame is roaring to life inches from his face. 

He takes a shaky hand and places the cig between his teeth. He moves the lighter towards his face and, moving it away, takes a drag. He holds it, feels the burn filling his body as he ponders where he could even go next. And then he lets it go, watching the smoke billow in front of him and drift away.

* * *

_ “So what are they?” Stanley asks. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ The fire in Stan’s mind is dying down, bright orange flames dulling and receding back towards the wood below them. “What are the four elements of the nerd pyramid?” _

_ Ford chuckles above him. The bright sound heats up the room. “Oh, the essential elements of the fire tetrahedron? It’s the fuel, like wood or gasoline, then oxygen, the heat energy itself, and finally an uninhibited chain reaction. That’s what makes it a sustainable fire, and not just a spark. It’s when heat continues to be produced because of an ongoing reaction.” _

_ “And what happens when one of those sides of the triangle goes out?” Stan says. The fire is roaring to life, filling every corner of his mind and he swears he can almost feel the heat it produces. The color is shifting, changing as the heat increases, from orange to bright white. _

_ “Well, the fire can no longer continue without any of these four elements. If one is removed, the whole thing is extinguished.” _

* * *

Stan Pines strikes a match. The bus stop seat underneath him is cold, sapping away his energy in the Illinois winter but his attention is solely focused on the matchbox in front of him. There were four matches inside, five if he could find a use out of one of the broken pieces at the bottom of the box, and each strike he made was more desperate.

Winters were hard, had been for each of the six years he had been out in the cold now. Some days he managed to find a place to rest, a warm spot to curl up under, but more nights than he cared to admit were spent like this, desperately grabbing for heat in any way he could find it.

He should return to El Diablo, parked about a block away. He should crawl into the backseat, spread his dirty old blanket out on top of him and hope that no one raps on the windows of the shitty old thing, hope that he will fall asleep tonight quickly and with no dreams, hope that the frostbite will take him fast instead of long and drawn out. 

Instead he relishes in the feeling of drawing his hand back and flicking the dusty match against the matchbox, feels pride as a small light dances before his eyes. He holds the flame close to his face and watches it burn, uninterrupted, for just a few moments before the cold wind extinguishes the flame and he is alone again. 

* * *

_ “So,” Stanley says, “there can’t be a fire without these kinds of things.” _

_ Ford hums a little. “Technically, yes, although…” _

_ Stanley sighs. “Are you gonna go on and on about a technicality?” _

_ “Fire isn’t really a thing, per say,” Ford rambles, going on about a technicality. “It’s more of an event than a thing.” _

_ Stan admires the spectacle - the event - happening behind his closed eyes and imagines it the way Ford has described it. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Stanley is mesmerized. _

* * *

Stan Pines is no stranger to a lighter, and the one he pulls from his pocket is old and red. "Well, listen to this: you want me to get rid of this book? Fine, I'll get rid of it right now!” He announces, holding the lighter under the leather bound journal.

“No!” Ford cries, lunging towards him.

Everything is a blur as the two tussle, wrestling for the book. Stan is lost in his emotions, in his grief, in his white hot rage. The only thing stronger than that emotion is the pain coursing through him as he is thrown into the burning symbol on the side of the control panel.

Stanley Pines is familiar with fire, with the way it flickers on his patchwork skin, but he’s used to the orange-red flames sputtering at his fingertips compared to the blue-white heat that cuts through everything. For a moment the pain brings clarity - he is afraid, he is vulnerable, he is in danger.

And then like it appeared, the feeling disappears, and anger takes its place.

* * *

_ “Hey Ford?” _

_ “Yes, Stanley?” _

_ “What’s with fire being different colors?” Stan watches the fire growing behind his eyelids spark, transforming for a light orange to a bright blue. He can feel the heat coming off of it in waves. He should be scared, or worried, but instead he is transfixed by the sight of it. _

_ Ford brightens at the question. “There’s actually a common misconception with that! Many believe that flames change color with intensity, and while this is technically true for stars it isn’t true for flames! Color in flames has to do with the composition of the fuel.” _

_ “Huh,” Stan says softly. “What does it mean if the flames are blue?” _

* * *

Stanley Pines watches the flames crawl up the side of his mindscape, devouring the wooden table and leather chair and oaken cabinet, and he thinks he finally understands something. It’s a pity that he’ll forget it soon.

Walking over to a picture frame, Stanley Pines remembers an old conversation (while he still can) from decades ago. Ford had said something about blue flames not being the hottest, being created because of the chemicals of what burned, with the only exception being stars.

Stanley feels the flames flickering around him, wrecking havoc, and he wonders if this is the same bright heat that surrounds celestial bodies. 

His whole life has been surrounded in flames - escaping them, causing them, running from them and now burning in them.

The heat crawls closer and Stanley Pines, with only a pang of regret, welcomes the heat. 

* * *

_ “It actually has to do with the concentration of the materials. Blue flames indicate that the soot particles are very fine. With more oxygen in the reaction, less black body-radiating soot is created. The combustion is, overall, more complete.” Ford lectures. Stan sees the flame and wonders what burned to create this fire before him. _

_ Stan opens his eyes and the heat dissipates. “I always thought blue flames were the hottest.” _

_ “Yes,” Ford says, “but only for stars.” _

* * *

“Hey sweetie, toss me a marshmallow?” Stan says. Before he can finish the sentence Mabel has sent a volley of marshmallows his way. Stan laughs and tries to grab them out of the air. He misses most, but he manages to catch three of them. “I said one, hon, not twenty!”

“Grunkle Stan,” Mabel teases. “There’s never too many marshmallows!”

Dipper, sitting beside Mabel, rolls his eyes. He skewers a marshmallow and places his stick close to the firepit. “You can only fit so many marshmallows on a stick at a time, Mabel.”

“And the rest are for stuffing your face, duh,” Mabel exclaims. “Grunkle Ford, you want some ‘mallows?”

Stan looks to his left and watches Ford purse his lips in thought. Stan doesn’t think he ever will get used to the sight of Ford sitting besides him, safe and finally home.

“Mabel,” Ford says, voice low and seriously. “I would like as many marshmallows as you can possibly give me.”

“Oh no,” Dipper mumbles, face lowering to hide his grin.

“I WILL TAKE THAT AS A CHALLENGE,” Mabel screeches.

Stan doesn’t even try to hide his laughter as Mabel suddenly begins her assault, lobbying marshmallow after marshmallow Ford’s way. He catches the first six easily, dropping them into his lap or mouth before going back to grab more.

Stan can’t help but snort, and Ford looks over at the sound and gives him a genuine, grateful smile.

It is just at this moment that Mabel releases another marshmallow that hits Ford straight in the forehead.

Stan laughs so hard at the sight that he falls off the log he’s perched on, doubled over laughing with tears in his eyes.

Beside him he can hear Mabel’s frantic apologies, Ford’s calm assurances that nothing is wrong, and Dipper’s hysterical giggles at the sight.

Stanley Pines is filled with warmth, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the raging fire.

* * *

_ “Okay,” Stan concedes. _

_ “Okay?” Ford asks, swinging his legs over the bed and landed smoothly on the ground.  _

_ Stan sits up reluctantly, stretching. “Okay, I’ll take chemistry with you.” _

_ “Really?” Ford’s eyes light up and Stan tries his best to fight a large grin. He fails. _

_ “Yeah, why not. Who can say no to fire?” Stan stands up, lightly punching his brother on his shoulder. _

_ Ford laughs, punching his brother back. Ford heads to the door and Stan follows. _

_ He closes his eyes one last time and sees the growing flame. Exhaling, it distinguishes, but as he follows Ford outside the warmth still follows. _

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at @dissociateddisaster and talk to me about this mans!


End file.
